


Plastic Bees

by Houseplant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Rehab, Sensory damage, arts and crafts, cocaine addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseplant/pseuds/Houseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in rehab, Sherlock made several small perler bead bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plastic Bees

"Sherlock, what are these?" It's been a quiet set of days, no intrepid criminals have been making life hectic at the Yard, and John's flatmate has fallen into a sort of fugue. The detective has been quietly curled up on the sofa, and John really can't complain about it, as it's left him time to finally tidy up a bit around the flat.

  
"Hm?" Sherlock doesn't sound overly enthused about John's question, not bothering to turn over to look.

  
"These," John insists, holding in his hands several yellow-and black, childlike crafts. "They almost look like bees?" He isn't the most creative of persons, but even the ex-army doctor can recognise an attempt at art when he sees one. It's more a curiousity for him, than anything. "They were in an old takeaway container, under the sink. Do you... well, what are they?"

  
Sherlock shrugs, throws his dressing gown over his shoulder. "You can toss them out." And that's the end of it. He thinks.

\---  
"Sherlock," The woman in charge of that day's 'socialisation session' speaks softly, as if he were a child, and it grates on his every nerve. Couldn't he simply sit, alone, and think, rather than be prodded about, forced to 'commune' with other addicts?

  
The woman is very much unaware of his annoyances, setting down a bin of small, plastic items in front of him. He spares them barely half a second, taking in their garish mix of vibrant, eye-searing colours, before promptly ignoring them. "You've got to do something, Sherlock. We can't have you just sitting here all day. Why not make something? I've brought these over, they're--"

  
"Perler beads, yes, I can read the tin, thank you very much," Sherlock finishes for her, abruptly rising from his seat and declaring that he was going outside, whether an orderly wanted to accompany him or not. Even as another nurse is escorting him outside, the first therapist is speaking at his retreating form,

  
"You said you'd like to play the violin again. Placing these in any sort of pattern will help you in learning to re-master your hands. I'll simply leave them here, for when you return."  
Sherlock doesn't expect that he will, the very idea almost asinine. He could be any sort of visual artist he wanted-- if he had any inclination towards it. But a children's craft meant to hone dexterity?

  
Insulting.

  
Hours passed, the day turned into night and he was ushered back into the building. Still, true to her word, the nameless woman (there were far too many unimportant people for Sherlock to bother with retaining what useless arrangement of syllables a singular person answered to) had left the tacky bin on the table, when everything else had been cleared away.

  
Sherlock let them sit there, ignoring them for days, as other patients at the facility toyed with some designs, dumped them back into the bin, and carried on with their days.

  
Just when it appeared that he wasn't going to cave, wasn't even going to attempt anything to work around the numbness (and subsequent clumsiness) of his own hands, Sherlock once again took up his seat at the long, chipped and lightweight table, spilling out the tiny, difficult-to-grasp beads over its entire expanse, and sorted them.

  
Minutes turned into hours, and fumbling movements became more and more confident, as colours were sorted into like piles, and simplified insectoid designs were left on the trays.  
No one said anything, when he wandered away that evening, leaving several bee designs on the table.

  
Sherlock said nothing, either, when an anonymous person left the finalised, ironed-together product in an envelope at the front desk for him to collect.  
\---  
John made no more mention of the bees, neither did Sherlock, but they both wondered what the other thought, when one day they were arranged on the walls of their flat; a hive of the same medium joining them because, "Well, it would be a shame for them to have no place to return to, right?"


End file.
